


A Study in Unconventional Biology

by Anonymous



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Monster Dick, Monsterfucking, No Beta, Piss, Unrealistic Sex, Wetting, dead dove do not eat, dubcon, it’s kinky and theres piss ok?, nightmare fuel as cum, porn without plot but also theres a lot of exposition, the tone is both kinky and clinical c’est la vie, wilson is implied to be asexual but not sex repulsed and also kinky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28502379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Wilson fucks around and finds out. Porn without plot. DDDNE.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 36
Collections: Anonymous





	A Study in Unconventional Biology

**Author's Note:**

> The Them have given Maxwell some unusual biology and for why??? sodomy????

The full moon shines bright over the constant covering the whole of the island with its luminescent blue glow. Silently, Wilson slips away from the camp as the other survivors continue to slumber. He isn’t the only one away from camp. The lumberjack, he knows, is out tonight ravaging the forests.

However, it is not Woody who he is pursuing tonight. No, he has documented the werebeaver curse quite comprehensively. Tonight, he is tailing after Maxwell. He has been wanting to do this for quite some time as the other man has always slipped away from the main camp in the days directly preceding and following the full moon. However, he has never quite been able to - either due to his studies of the werebeaver curse or some fluke involving another survivor. 

Tonight though, he will not be stopped. There must be some reason for the clockwork disappearances, and based on his casual observations observations - Maxwell’s increased agression, sharper teeth, and more claw-like hands in the days leading up to his disappearances - Wilson has a hypothesis. The whole thing practically screams werecreature. There’s already set precedent with Woodie, afterall, and the effects of the Nightmare Throne are both elusive as well as predictable - at least the known ties between the Nightmare cycle and the moon cycle anyhow. Yes, while the exact nature of the lycanthropy is unknown, he has an inkling that it likely resembles the monstrous form taken during Maxwell’s stint as king. 

As he slips through the forest, he follows the lightly worn trail that he knows leads to Maxwell’s personal camp. He’s followed this trail many times before. Maxwell isn’t exactly a very public person, especially regarding his shadow magic, and Wilson has spent many hours secretly studying it and him. He has notebooks filled with observations on the nature of the magic as well as, more embarrassingly, notebooks filled with drawings of Maxwell’s shadowy claws, arching backbone, toothy maw, and unique skeletal structure. He has one such notebook with him tonight. He is keen on observing the full transformation and recording it. For science! 

Finally, he reaches the other man’s camp and settles into his usual spot. He is tucked away behind a rather large rock and sandwiched between a bush and a tree. In the dim light, it’s impossible to see him. He settles down, withdraws his notebook and charcoal pencil, and waits.

Just as he predicts, Maxwell soon emerges naked from his tent. Wilson was expecting this. The man was obsessed with the state of his suit, and it would not likely survive the sort of bodily transformation seen in the likes of Woody. Though, Wilson muses, Woody did always come back with his clothes on.

It’s easy to see that Maxwell is already deep in the throes of transformation. His hands, while always blackened and clawlike, are now gnarled and extended into true talons. Wilson squints. There may be added finger joints. He wishes he could get a closer look. The man is bent onto all fours, his spine arched in a bizarre fashion. It’s clear that the stance is painful, but from the way the hips connect, it looks to Wilson as if he has no other choice but to stand in such a way. His hindquarters are the most drastic change. Where two bipedal and mostly human legs once were there now are black furred haunches resembling that of a sighthound. They taper down to digitigrade paws with sharp clawtips at the end. A large tail swishes in the moonlight.

Maxwell paces around the camp, his gait uneven and awkward. He swings his head to and fro, eyes screwed shut, as the transformation completes itself. When he opens them, his usual browns have been replaced by glowing gold. His mouth pulls into a snarl, rows of jagged teeth glinting in the blue light. There are far too many to comfortably fit within his mouth. Wilson is frantically scribbling notes. He wonders at the bone structure - Oh how he wishes Maxwell would die in this form so that he could get a proper look at the way the teeth fit within the skull, and the way the hips and back connect, and the extra joints on the fingers, and-

His thoughts stop short. Maxwell is staring right at him. The werebeast takes a deep breath in. Its eyes narrow. _Oh stars_. He should have known that it would have an enhanced sense of smell. The other canine features should have been a giveaway, really.

He starts to back away slowly, but it’s too late. The beast is on him in a flash. He is roughly pushed to the ground as claws dig into his shoulders. Maxwell’s face is shoved towards his own, teeth bared. Saliva drips from his mouth - forced permanently open from the wealth of dentition - and onto Wilson’s cheek. Wilson makes for his razor, tucked into his pocket, but the beast is quicker. It shifts its position, trapping Wilson’s arms at the elbow rather than the shoulder. It sits on his legs and leans forward, sniffing inquisitively.

Wilson can’t help but take in the view. He had wanted a closer look, and while this wasn’t _exactly_ ideal, he wasn’t going to look a gift-were in the mouth - or rather. He was. For science. It’s easier up close to see the changes made to the facial structure. The jawbone has clearly been altered to allow for what he assumes is a more powerful bite force as well as for the extra teeth. Looking at where the monster’s front talons are pinning him, he confirms his earlier theory there as well. There _are_ extra finger joints.

The monster continues to sniff at him for a while before coming to some sort of conclusion. Wilson isn’t particularly worried - he has a meat effigy back at camp - but he still hopes that it won’t kill him if only to avoid having to explain himself to the other survivors. He’s already begun to formulate excuses- ‘ _I was looking for glommer, I was collecting fireflies, I was fighting a werepig_...’ - when his thoughts are cut off by a sudden and vaguely unpleasant sensation. The thing has stopped sniffing now and is instead licking at his face. It’s. Gross. Wet. Slimy. Its tongue is long - much longer than Maxwell’s in his normal state - and has a forked tip.

Maxwell continues to lick at his face before travelling downward. As it approaches his shirt, it begins to mouth at the fabric with its teeth. Wilson feels more than a little annoyance at this. Mending clothes is a pain, and this will be hard to explain away. It’s obvious now what the thing’s game is. It clearly doesn’t want to kill him, and he and Maxwell have engaged in carnal relations before. Clearly some sort of residual memory lies therein. He feels as if he should be having some sort of moral debate, but finds himself lacking. There really isn’t much he can do in this situation, and he _did_ want a closer look... And besides, he’s done much worse for science before, though the ripped clothes really is annoying.

He doesn’t let himself become too distracted though. Trapped like this, he has no way to record his findings, afterall. He must commit as much to memory as possible.

As he continues to observe and memorize, Maxwell has continued his trail down his body. His shirtfront is completely opened now - buttons torn off (small blessings, it’s easier to sew on buttons than mend actual tears) - and the thing is now moving onwards and downwards toward his crotch. His pants soon go the way of his shirt, buttons flying. Maxwell moves from his sitting position to use his hindlegs to remove the pants and underwear from Wilson completely, and he suddenly finds himself glad that it’s midautumn. This would be so much worse in the cold, or the heat, or - _stars forbid_ \- the rain. After the removal of Wilson’s pants, Maxwell wastes no time before bathing Wilson’s asshole in a similar manner to the rest of him. The grossness from before becomes lessened as he himself starts to become aroused. Maxwell is careless in his motions, frequently also giving attention to Wilson’s balls and cock, and it’s not long before the other man is hard. 

As he continues to do this, Wilson takes this time to get a good look at Maxwell’s lower anatomy. The drastic changes he had noted in the haunches and legs seem to also apply to the penis and testes. It could be described as almost canine, but not exactly. The cock has sprung forth from a sheath and is certainly not the shape of a human penis. It is much larger and has a flared tip as well as what seems to be a knot at the base. However, unlike a canid penis, it also bears what seem to be dull barbs down the length. It’s dripping with a dark, oily substance that Wilson instantly identifies as nightmare fuel. He wonders why in the name of science the Them thought all this necessary.

He isn’t however, given much time to wonder. Maxwell quickly has decided that Wilson is well enough prepared and has begun to rut against him. His aim is horrendous, his hard length bumping up against Wilson’s thighs a couple times before suddenly hitting home. Wilson yelps at the sudden intrusion, and in being jostled forwards is made suddenly and potently aware of another need born from the fact that he had been sitting in the bushes watching the other man for quite some time. He has to urinate. Badly. 

_Oh stars not now_. But there’s nothing that can be done. Maxwell continues to rut against him, each snap of the hips pushing more and more of his length into the other man. Wilson begins to panic as each movement sends frantic signals to his bladder. His cock, still hard, blocks any sort of release. Maxwell continues onwards, not noticing not caring, focussing only on his own primal needs. Wilson squirms in the grass, trying to inch away, but it has the opposite of the intended effect as Maxwell snarls and tightens his hold on him before roughly snapping his hips forward - forcing himself completely inside. Wilson screams as he’s roughly jostled and his bladder is suddenly hit from the inside. From there, Maxwell sets a brutal pace, his movements mercifully self-lubricated by nightmare fuel. Each violent snap of the hips sends Wilson into a place between pleasure and pain. He thinks himself about to explode, but his raging erection still prevents himself from being able to empty his bladder. As Maxwell pushes deeper, Wilson feels his knot at his entrance. He panics again. He can’t do this. He’s already so full. But Maxwell has a tight hold on him, and slowly the knot is forced in and Maxwell is spilling into him sending him screaming again as the monster’s cock brushes up against his prostate and he feels the rush of fluids inside of him. Maxwell continues to rut uselessly against him, stuck by the knot, as he continues to cum more oily black fluid, and Wilson’s prostate is grazed and his bladder jostled with every movement until he finds himself unable to hold back anything anymore and he’s cumming hard onto his own stomach - piss quickly following. He feels disgusted by it - his own orgasmic pleasure lessened by the feeling of cooling piss on his body - and his disgust grows as Maxwell begins to lap the mixture up from his body. He wants to push him away, but he cant - his arms still trapped and he himself still tied to the monster by its still inflated knot. He’s stuck here; left to lie in the disgusting wet grass and plan his revenge.

For he will certainly have revenge for this. Sure, he got the closer look he wanted, and sure Maxwell will likely have little to no recollection of the whole event, but piss is piss and ripped clothes are ripped clothes. He _will_ be be getting even.


End file.
